


Cetea

by Narkiiiisos



Series: Oc Oneshots/Drabbles [1]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst, Backstory, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Cults, Drabble, Eldritch, Fantasy, Original Fiction, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narkiiiisos/pseuds/Narkiiiisos
Summary: A goddess' decent into madess.
Series: Oc Oneshots/Drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534346
Kudos: 1





	Cetea

**Author's Note:**

> A rough drabble-esque backstory for my original character Cetea written in second person cause I thought it would be fun. My friend bullied me into posting so I hope you find it somewhat entertaing.   
Character Aethetic board: https://pin.it/34itdexuyelo3p

Do you remember the first time you tasted it? Metallic red pooling on your tongue and dripping down your chin, sparking a fire in your chest and warming your cold body from the inside out. It was as if for the first time since you crawled from the dark and perilous sea you were  _ alive _ . 

It never lasts long enough that feeling, though, does it? You were made to be hungry it seems, an insatiable thing. Gluttonous and cold. They could give you everything and it wouldn't be enough. 

But they did give you everything, didn't they? Or they tried to. Everything they could get their precious little hands on. When they couldn't get you living, they brought you dead. Deer or fowl, crab or fish— never man, no matter what the rumors that circulated the local villages suggested. You refused to ask that of them no matter how many times they offered ( _ All the other eldritch gods eat man, we only want to satisfy you. Let us please you, Cetea. We want to please you) _ . They devoted their short and fragile lives to you; dressed you in fine silk and decorated you with jewels. And oh, how they prayed. It was almost as good as blood. Almost. 

And in return, what was it you gave them? 

You gave them this. 

Burning. The smoke fills your lungs and blinds you, fire melts the flesh from your bones, but it doesn't matter, none of it does. Pain is immaterial. They stopped screaming some time ago but you can't. It doesn't feel real— it can't be— because they're all you have and without them you'll surely waste away. 

But it's more than that, more than just self-preservation. You loved them the way gods do, you wanted to give them the world, and you had plans to. As soon as you could get your appetite under control, as soon as you were stronger than the other deities that walk this mortal earth. Soon. You needed to be strong to protect them, keep them safe in this cruel world. You're still young for what you are, timeless but not yet ancient. 

You can't now, can you? They're dead.

Still, you search until you can't any longer, until the roof of your temple caves in and crushes you like the pathetic grub you are, splits your skull across the stone and burns that up too. 

***

You come back (you always will) and the heretics are dragging you by your feet along a dirt path, your black ichor making it hard to maintain a sure grip. You fall back into oblivion to the feeling of your flesh coming apart in their filthy hands. 

They hang you up on the wall like a tapestry, like a head speared on castle ramparts. An example. A warning _ .  _ The sheep that are herded in to pray three times a day look at you with pity and fear and just a pinch of disgust. The black-cloaks regard you with a self-righteous disinterest. You want to sink your teeth into them, tear them apart like they tore your heat from your chest. 

He visits you on the twenty second day and the rage comes on so suddenly you forget how to breathe. By now, your skin has returned and hunger has begun to eating its way though your insides. You spit like a snake down at him, bare chest heaving. “Filthy, ungrateful, traitorous  _ worm!  _ Dead— ashes scattered on blackened earth, is that what you wanted?!”

“You were leading them astray, into the dark pit you crawled from.” He sounds so sure of that. The accusation spears your chest, splits you into two (you don't understand what you did wrong, you didn't make them do anything).“I saved them, freed their souls before you could corrupt them beyond salvation.”

With breath you dont hold in your lungs, you choke, “Why this?”

“This is your atonement.”

“And what of your soul— of your penance? You set them ablaze while they slept, there is no Virtue in that!” 

You're supposed to be wrathful, fill his rotten little heart with fear, make him regret what he's done to you— to them. You're not, though, even with your sharp teeth the words sound frail and pathetic. You just wanted them to love you.

“You will not stand idle while they— Nikulas!” He's turned to leave and panic floods your hungry body. You've begged for nothing until this moment. “Do not leave me here. Do not forsake me to an eternity of this, please! Nikulas,  _ please _ —”

The heavy wooden door swings shut. 

You scream after him until you're silenced. 

***

  
  


Time passes in bursts; seconds last hours and entire decades pass in a matter of days. You’re nothing more than a statue collecting dust now. They've forgotten you're alive and you don't blame them, you wish you were. You're barely breathing these days. 

One night, what seems like an eternity after that day, a flock of little lambs gets curious. You're used to the way the younger men look at you; you may be skeletal, but you've still got breasts, and while the moth bitten cloth around your waist covers what's between your legs, the rest is bared to all. Such things still hold interest even on an emaciated statue, it seems. 

Still, none have had the nerve to approach. None until now. 

They're so close you can taste them on the air, laughing amongst themselves as they congregate around you. They've forgotten to fear you. What silly little lambs. 

Blood fills your mouth and you moan, razor teeth piercing warm flesh, life coming to you in a rush. You wrap your withered legs around the gurgling, wailing boy, the dried-out tentacles of your hair too, trapping it to your body. The others try to pull you off but the enchantments on your shackles have worn down over the centuries and the rush of euphoria grants you the power to snap the chains with a single tug. 

The pair of you tumble to the ground. You split yourself open, red writhing arms bursting from your hollow stomach, and feast on those foolish little lambs, growing and growing until you burst through the ceiling. Once you get a taste of it, you just can't seem to stop. 

You do eventually, though, for all things must end, when the village is reduced to rubble and you're all alone. 

Sunrise. It feels like your first; the sky above a wash of golds and oranges, saturated red, pale blue. With the wind caressing your skin, you smile, teeth dripping with gore. Your hunger is sated for now. For the first time in millenia, you truely feel alive.


End file.
